Ribbons
by Dostoevsky's Mouse
Summary: Klinger finds something that belongs to Charles. Charles would be angry about it... if only he weren't so terrified. Season 8 or so. Charles x Klinger. Slash.


This was a challenge fic written for Sarah Perry, who introduced me to the improbably charming phenomenon that is Charles/Klinger. Yes, it's slash. If that's not your thing, clicking the back button would probably be a good idea right about now.

Obviously, none of the characters are mine. Comments and criticism are welcome.

* * *

**Ribbons  
**by Grayswandir

Klinger was standing at his desk sorting the mail when he heard the outer door thrust open. He guessed who had entered without raising his eyes: the firm, supercilious click of Charles' boots across the floor was unmistakable. "Good morning, Major," he said brightly, but Charles brushed past him toward Potter's door without answering.

"Colonel—" said Charles as he pushed the door open; but he stopped in the doorway and looked around. "Where's Colonel Potter?"

"Mess tent, sir," said Klinger, licking his thumb to rifle through another stack of letters.

Charles turned around impatiently. "Klinger, I have just come from the Mess Tent. Colonel Potter is not—" He paused. "Klinger, what on earth are you doing?"

It was a fair question: the whole office seemed to be in disarray, littered everywhere with small, untidy stacks of envelopes. They were lined up on the bed and across the desktop and the seat of the chair, and a few single envelopes were lodged partway under objects on top of the filing cabinets. The last few unsorted letters were in a pile on the floor, and presently Klinger stooped and gathered them up.

"I'm sorting the mail, sir. I have a great system. Take a look." He stepped back and waved one arm. "On this side of the desk, we have the corpsmen. On that side, patients. On the cabinets, we have the cook, the supply sergeant, Father Mulcahy, the Colonel. And on the _bed_—the nurses." Klinger winked. "And over here—"

"Ah," Charles interjected, raising a hand to stop him. "Fascinating," he said dryly. "But before you get on to overhauling the Dewey Decimal System as well, might I inquire what crudely euphemistic niche in this unholy clutter you've reserved for the _doctors_?"

"Oh, only the best for you, sir. The throne and pedestal." Klinger indicated the seat of the chair with a flourish, then reached down and produced an envelope from the stack. "Major Charles Winchester," he read aloud. Inspecting the stamp, he added, "Looks like it's from Seoul."

"Give me that," said Charles, plucking the letter irritably from his hand. "Who on earth would be writing to me from Seoul?" He looked at it, turned it over. "There's no return address."

"I have a dress you can return, Major. Lavender was never my color."

"Cretin," murmured Charles, pulling open the desk drawer.

At that moment, there came a knock at the door, and Klinger turned around. A young private was standing in the doorway, holding a large box and a clipboard.

"Morning, sergeant," said the youth. "You the company clerk? I need someone to sign for this delivery."

"That's me," said Klinger. "What've we got?"

"Typewriter ribbons, sir."

"Typewriter ribbons? Boy, leave it to the army to send you everything but what you print on the requisitions. Here, I'll take that." Klinger stepped up and reached for the box, then staggered forward under the unexpected weight. He looked at the young private incredulously. "You gotta be kidding me. How much typing do they think we're going to be doing? This thing weighs a ton!"

Charles glanced up with a derisive smile. "Don't hurt yourself, Klinger." He extracted a letter opener from between the pages of a bent pamphlet in the drawer and sliced into his envelope. "I would have thought a shipment of ribbons would be right up your alley, so to speak." He smiled again.

"Very funny, Major," said Klinger, balancing the box precariously on his raised knee with one hand and reaching for the clipboard. "But I'll eat my hat if this is a shipment of ribbons, typewriter or otherwise."

"Coming from a man who eats windshield wipers in steak sauce, I think that oath falls a bit flat." Charles unfolded his letter and raised his eyebrows at Klinger. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Just sign here, sergeant," said the youth, handing Klinger his pen.

"Kid, are you sure this is the right box?"

"Yes sir. You can check the numbers yourself."

Klinger shook his head, wobbling slightly on one leg as he turned the clipboard to sign. He'd scribbled half of his name down before the box started to slip, and he nearly toppled over backwards catching hold of it again.

"Klinger," said Charles. "You might find it expedient to set the box _down_, hm?"

"I've got it."

"Klinger..." Charles watched as Klinger hefted the box back onto his knee and started to totter again. Sighing, he set his letter down on the desk and crossed to the door. "Give me the box, Klinger, before you find yourself contributing any further proofs to Mr. Murphy's esteemed law." He lifted the box out of Klinger's grasp, and grimaced slightly. "This _is_ heavy, isn't it?"

"I told you so, Major," said Klinger, re-signing his name in an only marginally more legible hand. He handed back the clipboard.

"Just a moment, Private," said Charles. "For once – much as it chafes me to admit it – I am in agreement with Sergeant Klinger. I shall personally feed him his hat if this box has not been mislabeled."

"Sorry, Major," said the private, returning to the door. "That's the box they gave me."

"Private—"

"Good day, sirs." And the door swung shut again.

"_Private_! Klinger, detain that imbecile!"

"Major, it's no use," said Klinger, who was fixing his earrings and had not even looked at the door. "He's on orders. He won't take it back." Klinger took the box back from Charles and carried it to the desk, where he set it down on top of the short stacks of mail arranged there. "Besides, if I turned away all the stuff we don't need, we wouldn't get any deliveries at all."

Klinger produced a pocketknife from his jacket, split the tape on the box, and pulled at the cardboard flaps. Charles stepped around behind him and peered inside.

"Is that a _typewriter_?" he asked.

"Sure looks like it."

Klinger finished cutting the flaps open, and they both stood a blinking at the misbegotten typewriter, black and shiny in its box. Klinger shook his head.

"Leave it to the army," he said. "I've sent out five requisition forms for penicillin and this is what they send us." He threw up his arms and turned around. "It's crazy. It's crazier than me. I don't know how I ever expected to get out; the whole supply staff needs a Section Eight. The whole war needs a Section Eight!"

Just then a voice rang out over the PA system: "Attention all personnel! Choppers! We've got wounded, folks."

"Naturally," murmured Charles.

Klinger looked at the typewriter. "I guess this'll have to wait," he said, letting the cardboard flaps fall closed again. He followed Charles out of the room.

-------

"Suction," said Charles. Then, impatiently: "Nurse, you are blocking my light."

"Sorry, Major."

"It's not her fault you're so dim, Charles," said Hawkeye, looking up from his table.

"Pierce, do be silent for five minutes."

"Just a little light humor."

BJ glanced up. "It's not easy living in your shadow."

Charles rolled his eyes and went back to work. "Retraction."

"I thought you wanted _refraction_," said Hawkeye.

Charles looked up sharply. "Captain. Please. You are trying my patience."

"Oh, no Charles, I think I'll let you try your own patients. Mine's due in Post-Op." Hawkeye smiled and stepped back, allowing the corpsmen to take the patient from the room. "All right, who's next?"

Almost immediately, Klinger and another corpsman entered and placed a new patient on Hawkeye's table. A nurse followed them with a stack of X-rays.

"Klinger," Charles said, "I thought this was going to be a light shift. How many more are out there?"

"Only two more, sir." Klinger stood up stiffly, rubbing at his back with a grimace. "But I wouldn't say the shift has been _light_."

"Don't mind him," said Hawkeye, returning with a fresh pair of gloves. "Charles has been in the dark all day."

Charles looked up again. "Colonel—"

"All right, Pierce, leave Winchester alone." Colonel Potter bent back over his patient, then glanced up briefly again. "Klinger, have you written up those requisitions I asked about?"

"Not yet, sir, I was just sorting the mail."

"Well when you're done here, get on those forms. I want them on my desk when I get back."

Klinger saluted. "Yes, sir."

Hawkeye called to the door, "Oh, and Klinger. Put in a requisition for one Charles Emerson Winchester the fourth, would you? Tell them we're not satisfied with the current model."

"I'm on it, sir. But if you want an exchange, I hope you kept the receipt."

-------

Klinger hummed absently as he dropped the stack of requisition forms on Colonel Potter's desk. He wondered whether Potter would notice the interspersed demands for chocolate ice cream, hand buzzers, and stilts. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do with the stilts yet, but he figured it had to be crazy to wear stilts in the army, no matter what you used them for—especially if you didn't know how. Of course, it wouldn't really get him a Section 8—but it might get him a broken wrist or two, which would at least provide him a brief respite from filling out requisition forms.

He strolled back to his desk, still humming, and reached to move the box off of his desk so he could get on with mail call. He paused, however, when he noticed a paper there beside the box. It looked like a letter, although at first glance he couldn't make out the name of the addressee: the script was small and dainty and difficult to read. Klinger picked up the paper and looked at it more closely. "Dear Charles," it began. "Just writing to thank you for the enchanting evening we spent together."

Klinger blinked and read the sentence over, tracing the curling letters carefully to be sure he'd read them right. An enchanting evening with Charles? Well, Klinger supposed all things were possible, even if this one struck him as wildly improbable. He glanced at the door, checked the clock, and chewed on his lip. After all, it couldn't hurt to read a little further...

"... It was wonderful," the letter read. "You are truly a gentleman, much more pleasant than the dirty soldiers who usually take me out." Ah, so she was one of _those_ types... "I regret that we didn't exactly part on the best of terms (well, darling, how was I to know you were so particular about your wine?)" – Klinger suppressed a laugh – oh, that was priceless – "but I feel certain you will take back all the horrible things you said about me if we meet again. I will be in Seoul for another three weeks, so if you're in... "

There were footsteps outside. Klinger cast about for the envelope and hurriedly refolded the paper without looking at it. He had only just stuffed it back inside when the door opened.

"Ah, Klinger," said Charles. "Most expendable of company clerks." He looked around the room as he entered, taking in again the clutter of letters in their little piles on the desk and shelves. "I see you still haven't got round to distributing the mail yet, which would explain why I haven't received any."

"I was... just starting on it, Major," said Klinger, glancing hesitantly down at the envelope still in his hand. Charles followed his eyes.

"Is that mine?"

Klinger looked at the envelope for a beat, then recalled himself and quickly handed it over. "Oh. Yeah. You left it this morning. I was, ah, just about to go looking for you to return it."

Charles looked at him suspiciously, then glanced down at the envelope.

"It's been opened."

"You opened it yourself, Major." Klinger pointed out the letter opener, which was still on the desk. Withdrawing the paper, Charles glanced up at Klinger uncertainly, then back at the letter as he unfolded it. His eyes widened slowly, and he raised them to Klinger again.

"You do swear, Klinger, that you didn't read this?" he asked, looking a bit frightened.

"Major! I—a man of honor—a soldier of such unshakable integrity as this army has never witnessed before—why, I'm offended by the very notion!"

Charles studied Klinger's face. He looked back at the letter, then up at Klinger again, with large, searching eyes. His look was so full of trepidation and fear that Klinger resisted laughing only by an extraordinary effort. At length, however, Charles seemed to calm down, and he looked at the letter again.

Klinger said, "It's too bad about the wine."

Charles' eyes shot back up, and they were wider than Klinger had ever seen them. His face had gone white.

"You _read_ it?"

Klinger shrugged. "Major, it's my business to read the stuff people leave on my desk. Besides—"

"Klinger, listen to me," said Charles, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "I have no idea where this letter came from, do you understand? I have never heard of this... person, and I cannot begin to fathom why he should be writing such scandalous—"

"_What_?" said Klinger, reaching to tilt the letter for a glance at the signature. Charles slapped his hand away, but not before he had seen the name: "Private James Lewis," it said at the bottom, and above that, "Fondest regards."

"I _said_ I cannot _fathom_... Klinger, this is not what it looks like!"

But Klinger was nearly doubled over with laughter, and was not listening to Charles at all. "Oh, Major. This is really something."

"No it _isn't_! It's really _nothing_, Klinger, I assure you—"

"It's all right, Major," said Klinger, wiping his eyes and still laughing. "I'm sure no one will believe me anyway..."

If Klinger had thought Charles' eyes could not get any wider, he was mistaken, for they seemed to positively double in size. Charles grabbed Klinger by the shoulders and shook him to stop his laughing.

"Klinger, I _implore_ you... Surely, _surely _you don't really mean to—to suggest— This is _slander_! I would never hear the end—I—" But Klinger sank out of Charles' grasp and onto the chair in a fresh fit of laughter, and Charles could only stare at him. Suddenly he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, from which he produced a stack of bills. "What do you want, Klinger? Name your price—if it is beyond my present means, I shall have my sister send it out to me by the next post..." He started counting out fives, but Klinger waved his hand away.

"Not a chance, Major," he said, pushing himself back to his feet and wiping his eyes again. "Your money's no good here." He checked the envelopes he had just sat on to be sure he hadn't damaged them too badly, then crossed to the filing cabinet in the corner and began gathering the letters there, still giggling. He picked up his mail bag from the floor. Charles followed him.

"Then what do you _want_ from me?" Charles said, still proffering his handful of bills.

"Who ever said this was blackmail? Maybe I don't want anything." Klinger smiled, tucking the letters into the mail bag.

Charles stared at him.

"Klinger, I am on my very _knees_." Klinger looked him up and down with one eyebrow raised, and Charles, taking the hint, scowled and grudgingly lowered himself to the floor. "There, are you happy? Now surely there is _something_ I can do to dissuade you from—from _ruining_ me. _Anything_, Klinger, I will do absolutely _anything_ if you will only keep your accursed mouth _closed_..."

Klinger looked down at him, still smiling. "Well... You said _anything_, Major?"

Charles hesitated. He watched Klinger's eyes for a moment, clearly disconcerted by his tone, but at last he managed an uncomfortable nod. "Yes. Yes, anything at all, Klinger, I am at your mercy. Just name it."

"You sure?"

Charles gritted his teeth. "_Positive_, Klinger."

"All right." Klinger set his mail bag back on the floor and bent down close to Charles. "Kiss me," he said.

"You witless buffoon," Charles murmured, pulling away. Klinger caught his shoulders.

"I'm serious, Major. This isn't a joke."

"No? I might say that the conspicuous lack of _flying pigs_ around the camp testifies persuasively to the contrary. You—"

But Klinger leaned forward and pressed his lips to Charles', cutting him off.

He held the kiss for several long seconds, until the tenseness had gone somewhat out of Charles' shoulders, and then he drew back. Charles stared at him, his brows lifted in an expression of mingled sarcasm and uncertainty. At length, he said slowly,

"Good heavens. You _are_ serious, aren't you?"

"You're telling me the dresses never tipped you off?"

"Well..."

"Kiss me."

Charles blinked a little and shook his head. "No, Klinger, I... I really don't think this is prudent..."

"Come on, Major—you were willing to pay out your whole fortune to keep me quiet, but you won't kiss me? I can't be that ugly."

Charles looked up at him, hesitant, but he held his gaze. "No," he said. "No, you're not."

Klinger moved forward again, and this time Charles reluctantly closed his eyes and leaned in closer, sliding a hand up Klinger's back. He felt warm fingers glide down his spine to his belt, and he arched in to kiss Klinger's neck.

Just then, the door swung open.

Charles and Klinger both scrambled to their feet, and Klinger nearly fell backwards against the filing cabinet. He snatched up the mail bag from the floor again and threw it clumsily over his shoulder. Charles, flushed crimson, bent his head toward the floor.

But Colonel Potter had not so much as glanced at them; he appeared to be reading some papers in his hands, and only stopped when he noticed the large box sitting on Klinger's desk.

"What's this, son? Not penicillin yet, I suppose," he said, adjusting his glasses.

Klinger brushed his uniform off self-consciously. "Typewriter ribbons, sir."

Potter pulled back the cardboard flaps. "Ribbons! Klinger, this is a whole typewriter! What was wrong with the old one?"

"Nothing, sir. But you know the old army adage. 'If it ain't broke, replace it.'"

"It's the jackasses up at HQ that need _replacing_," said Potter, closing the box roughly. "A fellow can't turn around without—" He turned around. "Oh. Major Winchester. I didn't see you there." When Charles kept his eyes to the floor and said nothing, Colonel Potter added pointedly, "Can I help you?"

"No—ah, no, Colonel," answered Charles, too quickly. "I was just... just, ah..." Charles looked down at the envelope still clutched in his fingers, waved it feebly with a strained smile. "Just... picking up my mail."

Potter watched Charles' shaking hand, then shot a skeptical look over at Klinger, who had his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Is there something going on here I should know about, Klinger?"

Charles answered before Klinger had even opened his mouth. "No, no, Colonel. Just... aheh," and he displayed the crumpled envelope again, "personal matters."

"Well, we've all got '_personal matters_,' Major, and I don't need you taking yours out on my company clerk. If you've got a problem, you find your way to Father Mulcahy's tent, comprende?"

"Yes... perfectly, Colonel."

"Good."

Charles looked anxiously at the door. "Well. I'd... better be going." He shot a glance at Klinger, and Klinger, who had at last regained his composure, smiled back.

"Yeah... I'd better get back to work too. At this rate, I'm going to be up _all night_," he said. "Settling... _affairs_." He turned to Potter and shrugged. "Otherwise, who knows what people might start saying about me."

Charles glared quietly, and Klinger turned back to the file cabinet to collect the rest of the letters there. He glanced sideways at Charles with a grin. "See you later, Major."

Charles forced another wan smile and went back to the door. "Good afternoon, Colonel," he muttered, and the door swung shut behind him.

Potter looked at the door a moment. "Sometimes I wonder about Winchester," he said, shaking his head. "You finish those requisitions, son?"

"On your desk, sir."

"Good." Potter turned around and looked at the box on the table. "Well, see if you can't trade that for some extra blankets or something. Lord knows we don't need it."

A moment later, he called back from his office:

"And I'd better not find out I'm signing any more requests for chocolate ice cream!"

-------

It was nearly midnight before Charles returned, and this time he could not have been recognized by the click of his boots, for they hardly made a sound. He opened the door quietly and stepped inside, half hoping he would find Klinger fast asleep and could go back to his tent. But not so; Klinger was seated on the edge of his bed, from which, Charles observed, the nurses' letters had at last been removed. The desk, too, was clear now, apart from the phone and a few files, and the old typewriter in the corner: the box had been relocated to the floor, and all the mail distributed. The letter opener had been returned to its drawer.

Klinger, dressed in his pink robe and slippers, was just pulling off his earrings as Charles came in. As soon as Charles had closed the door, he stood and smiled.

"I was starting to wonder if you were going to show up," he said.

Charles looked back at the door. "This _is_ blackmail, you know."

Klinger laughed. "Come on. You really think I was going to tell anyone about that letter?"

"Of course you were. Klinger, we both know that there is only one thing bigger than your nose, and that is your mouth."

Klinger stepped forward, went up on his toes, and kissed Charles on the lips, then let his eyes wander downward.

"Want to find out?"

"Klinger..." Charles moved back a little toward the desk, glancing at the door again. He ran a hand over his bald head nervously. "This is hardly discreet. Someone could come in..."

"You want to move to the supply tent?"

"No, no, I don't— Listen... Tell me something. What is the _purpose_ of this?"

"The purpose? Heck, I don't know, Major... To get away from the war for a little while? To fill the gap everyone else fills with nurses and rent-girls?"

Charles pursed his lips. "And is that... is that all?"

"I don't expect you to introduce me to your mother, if that's what you mean."

Charles gave an awkward chuckle and glanced at the door again, then hesitantly sat down on the edge of the desk. Klinger rested his hands on Charles' thighs and leaned in for another kiss.

"Listen, Charles," he said. "I'll make you a deal."

"What sort of deal?"

"You go back to your tent in the next five minutes—and I'll forget I ever saw that letter."

Charles drew back a little, startled, and quickly checked the clock.

"And if... ah—" he scooted further onto the desk, away from Klinger's hands sliding up his legs. "And—if I don't go back to my tent?"

"Then I'll make sure _you_ forget about 'Private James Lewis.'"

Klinger reached up to unbutton Charles' collar, ran his thumbs over the gold clusters on his neat lapels, and kissed him again, hard. "Deal, Major?"

Charles seemed to consider his answer for a long while before he finally nodded.

"It's... a deal."

Within an instant, the next three buttons of his shirt were undone and Klinger was leaning into him again, pushing him further back toward the wall. He began to feel something heavy behind him digging into his back.

"Klinger, we may want to—Kling—" he arched back again as Klinger slipped a hand between his legs, and he felt the object behind him pushed further toward the edge of the desk. "Klinger, stop, you're—"

"Don't worry, Major," said Klinger, with another forceful kiss.

"No, you're—ah, Klinger, Klinger, stop, the type—"

Klinger pushed Charles all the way up onto the desk, and there was a sudden almost deafening crash, the grating sound of loose metal parts clattering together on a hard floor.

"...writer," said Charles. Klinger blinked.

Charles turned his head and stared down at the broken typewriter on the floor, his brows raised in disbelief.

"Good heavens," he said at length. "What staggering irony."

But Klinger had already resumed where he'd left off, and undone the next two buttons of Charles' shirt. He reached up and turned Charles' face back toward him, and kissed him, smiling.

"It's a good thing we've got all that typewriter ribbon."


End file.
